


Everyone Gets a Mulligan

by eatdirt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Insecurity, M/M, incorrect golf lingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 21:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16542470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eatdirt/pseuds/eatdirt
Summary: “A whole lot of this. But on a beach somewhere, you know? Can you imagine? You, me, Cas, toes in the sand, couple of them little umbrella drinks. Matching Hawaiian shirts, obviously. Some hula girls…”After the end of the world, Sam, Dean, and Castiel go on vacation.





	Everyone Gets a Mulligan

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2018 [spn_reversebang](https://spn-reversebang.livejournal.com/). Based on [this art piece](https://image.ibb.co/n0C6v0/Original-piece.jpg) by [missaceriee](https://missaceriee.tumblr.com). ♡
> 
>  
> 
> [Art @ tumblr](https://missaceriee.tumblr.com/tagged/spnrb18egam)  
> [Art @ AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16521494)

“Fore!”

“You can’t just yell out ‘fore’ whenever you feel like it, Dean. Words mean things in this game.”

Dean ignores his brother in favor of sizing up the tee. Okay, so he doesn’t actually know what he’s doing, but he’s watched enough PGA late at night when there is nothing on but sports and grainy reruns of _Leave it to Beaver_ to roughly know how it’s done. Besides, golf isn’t exactly an extreme sport—when you get right down to it, it’s just hitting a ball on a stand. It’s basically a glorified version of tee-ball, only smaller, slower, and way more boring.

He squares up, swings, and misses the ball entirely.

“You missed,” Castiel points out over the sound of Sam laughing himself into a damn coma.

“Gee, I hadn’t noticed. _Thanks_ ,” Dean grouses. His pride might have been bruised right now if golf wasn’t a stupid, pointless game. “I’m going again.”

“Hey, you can’t do that! It’s against the rules!” Sam scolds.

Dean rolls his eyes mimics Sam under his breath.

“I heard that!” 

He flicks Sam the bird and goes back to sizing up the tee. Right, this is fine. It’s just like tee-ball. Smaller, dumber, boring adult tee-ball. If he can beat the windmill in mini golf at The Lunar Game Club, he could do this.

This time when he swings he connects. He lifts his hand to shield his eyes from the sun and follow the ball’s trajectory across the green. The ball almost seems to curve sideways in mid-air before it drops smack dab into a sand trap. 

He groans while Sam laughs even harder at his misfortune. 

Sam flicks an imaginary tear from his eyes and smirks. “You know you deserve that for being a dick, right?” 

Dean barely refrains from throwing his club. “Ugh, this isn’t fair. I don’t know a damn thing about golf. This was a stupid idea for a vacation, but since we’re already here do we have to spend it all _outside_? Are you aware there was a hot tub with six alternating jet pressures in the Captain’s Suite? _Six_ , guys.”

There were better ways to spend their self-appointed weeks’ vacation time than at the Bradford & Mondale Country Club in Prairie Village, Kansas. Normally, Dean would have argued against taking that much time off from hunting, but his ribs had still hurt after a gruesome run-in with a ghoul and a little sunshine and pampering seemed like a good idea at the time. He, personally, had voted for the beach as their getaway destination. Sun, sand, hot co-eds—everything a guy would want after fending off a plethora of apocalypses. Then a grateful owner of an exclusive country club had given them a week’s stay after they took care of her wendigo problem, and Sam voted to do that instead. 

In an _Et tu, Brute?_ -style show of betrayal Castiel had sided with Sam against Dean’s beach idea. Dean loved that they were getting along, he really did, but it was at times like this when he was pretty sure they were plotting against him behind his back.

“You should bend your knees more,” Castiel says, seemingly materializing right beside him, though he had promised the brothers he would refrain from zapping in and out of places while on vacation.

“Oh come on, not you, too,” Dean groans. “What do you even know about golf?”

“Research,” he replies matter-of-factly. “You should have done some, too.”

“Okay, the Lecture Dean portion of this tour is now over. You’re up, Wings.”

Castiel takes the club and examines its curve with far more intensity than Dean really thinks is needed. He’d shirked the trench coat for the day in favor of a solid polo and slacks, a black hat pulled over his eyes to shield them from the sun. The whole look is so normal that it makes Dean feel a little off-balance. If you didn’t know him you’d never expect there was an angel in your midst. 

Castiel takes a few measured test swings before pulling back and hitting the T.

“Fore!” Dean yells out again, just to upset Sam a little more, the big baby.

The ball goes flying in a perfect curve. Dean has to adjust his hat back around to watch it fly. It bounces and rolls until it comes to a perfect stop at the edge of a hole. Three beats later, a gust of wind gently pushes it in.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Dean huffs.

Sam jogs up beside him and slaps Castiel on the shoulder. “Wow, that’s a hole-in-one, Cas.”

Castiel squares his shoulders and smiles, beaming under the praise. “Thank you, Sam.”

“Maybe you can give Dean some pointers.” Sam winks and Castiel’s smile widens. Dean huffs again, louder this time.

“Okay, okay, enough with the love fest. Let’s see if you fair any better, little brother.”

Sam bypasses the club Dean holds out for him in favor of grabbing one from the bag in the cart.

He catches Dean’s frown and shrugs. “3-Wood works better for this.”

“I know you think you sound really cool and all right now, Sammy, but that is quite possibly the lamest, dorkiest shit I have ever heard.”

Sam rolls his eyes and tees up. Dean falls back to where Castiel is standing with his club in one hand.

He bumps his shoulder against Castiel’s and smiles. “Damn, Cas, you’re really good at this shit, huh?”

“I watched a lot of pro-golf championship games in preparation for this.”

“Nerd,” Dean murmurs, though it comes out far more fondly than he intended.

Castiel shrugged. “There isn’t a lot to do when you are asleep.”

Dean throws his club back into the golf bag and stretches. Again, he laments the loss of that six-jet hot tub in their expensive suite. Damn Sam and his active streak.

When he drops his arms back down and he instantly feels cool fingers trail up from his wrist and brush deliberately over a raised scar on his arm. The scar’s a memento from a particularly nasty hunt that happened a couple of months ago. A rougarou had thrown him clear and he’d landed wrong on a pile of lumber. Ultimately, it had been fine. Sam, genius little Yeti that he was, outsmarted the thing and sent it back to Hell where it belonged. Dean, for his part, got a cool new scar.

When he came back to the bunker bloodied and bruised Castiel had been worried, worked up in a way he wasn’t usually. Dean hadn’t understood it, not until later, after Sam had cleaned it and Dean had medicated himself with a handful of Asprin and a bottle of Jack Daniels.

_”You’re not going to be young forever,” he had said as he traced his fingers around the sensitive skin. He’d refused to heal it, telling Dean he couldn’t put his life in danger and expect him to heal his wounds every time. Whatever. Chicks dig scars._

_Dean had only laughed. “Hell, I’m not young now. In twenty years we’re going to be wheeling around this town looking like Hugh Hefner and Pam Anderson with a five o’clock shadow.”_

Truth is, Dean _is_ getting old, and with the line of work he’s in his chances for a long, peaceful retirement are slim. It always seemed like an abstract concept, retirement; his favorite thing was to joke about racing Rascals with Sam in some quaint little old folks home in the mountains. It was a fun idea for the simple fact that it had always seemed like a fantasy, something that would never be realized. So getting old has never been at the forefront in his mind. Live fast and leave a sexy corpse, all that jazz.

Now, though… now it’s a little less cut and dry. Everything that used to be black and white is now shades of greys. It’s a lot harder, he’s found, to not worry where you’re going to end up when you’ve got pale blue eyes looking at you like you’ve yanked the sun from the sky every time you come back home a little worse for the wear. 

Dean looks nervously over his shoulder. This thing, with Castiel, it’s still—new. New enough for Dean to jump just a little every time he feels calloused fingers brush over his skin, and new enough for him to be wary when Castiel decides to do that in public. 

It’s not that Dean is _ashamed_ or anything as melodramatic as that. He just… it’s new. It’s really, really nice, but it’s all so _new_ , and not the kind of thing he would have done before. Before Heaven and Hell, before the end of the world (twice), before ‘forever’ became a shaky promise and instead of a bittersweet joke.

He clears his throat. “I hate golf.”

“I know,” Castiel says with his fingers still working over the scar in a pattern only he knows. “We could go to the beach next time if you still want to.”

Dean snorts. “Hey, where was that support when you and Sam were outnumbering me?”

Castiel shrugs. “Sam wanted to go golfing.”

“Yeah, but who’s cuter, me or Sam?”

“That isn’t relevant. Sam asked first.”

Dean groans and clutches his chest in mock-pain. “You wound me.”

Sam walked over to them smiling ear-to-ear. Dean straightens up and Castiel’s hand falls away like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

“You see that?” Sam asks proudly, chest puffed out.

“No. Do it again.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “Don’t be a dick, dean. Come on, we’ve gotta finish this game.”

Dean looks out at the course and the few other players in their souped-up carts and pom-pom hats. “Eh, I’m good. I think I’m gonna hold down the fort here.”

“What, you’re giving up already? We practically just started!”

“Hey, you can’t say I’m not man enough to admit defeat. You go on ahead, I think I’m gonna grab a bite.”

Sam sighs and shrugs. “Suit yourself. Cas?”

Castiel tilts his head and gives Dean a long, assessing glance. Dean tries not to squirm under the scrutiny. For all the years they’ve known each other he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to how intensely Castiel looks at him, or how carefully he examines what he finds there.

“I will stay here with Dean.”

Sam’s concerned frown turned into a secretive smile that made Dean squirm even more. Sam gets in the golf cart and drives off without another word, leaving the two of them standing alone.

Dean claps his hands and rubs them together. “I saw a stand back at the front that sold mini quiches. I’m going to need about a dozen of those before I’m okay with today.”

They make their way back down to the entrance of the golf course in silence, and for the first time since he was woken up at seven in the damn morning to put on a poofy hat and go play yuppie for three hours, Dean feels relaxed. The sun is high and there’s a gentle but consistent breeze that feels just right. 

The mini quiches are tiny but delicious. Dean chomps into three at once as he sits on the green, not caring whether his starch white pants get stained or not. Castiel sits next to him with his hands in his lap alternating between watching Dean stuff his face and watching the club’s hoity-toity members around about. 

Dean moans after a bite yields a gush of perfectly seasoned cheese. “These mini quiches almost make this vacation worth it. Almost.”

“This isn’t so bad. You’re exaggerating.”

“Fine, it isn’t horrible. It definitely ain’t’ Daytona, though.

“I’m sure now that you’ve let Sam pick first, he’ll be more amenable to going to the beach. I’ll support you then.”

Dean waggles his brows. “You just want to see my ass in some swim trunks, huh?” 

“I could see your ass any way that I want. We don’t need to go to the beach for me to see it.”

Dean laughs, surprised and delighted. Cas hasn’t always had a dirty mouth, but he supposes it was inevitable given the company he keeps.

He glances around the course—no one looking at the two grown men sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the green—then leans in to brush their arms together. The gesture is tame but deliberate, and Dean can only hope that Castiel understands the intent behind it.

Castiel shifts back to lean against him fully. “Maybe after the beach, we could go to Disneyland.”

“You… wanna go to Disneyland? Never woulda pegged you for a Disney guy. I mean, I can see you being a Chip and Dale fan, but…”

“I remember you mentioning it was the happiest place on earth. I figure if we go there everyone will be happy.”

“That’s some A+ logic there, Cas.” Dean chuckled. “But, uh, the ‘happiest place on earth thing’ is the kind of marketing only good money can buy. I’ve never actually been to Disneyland myself.”

“Has Sam ever gone?”

Dean opens his mouth to say no, but then he remembers those snatches of time where he didn’t know where Sam was, or what he was doing. “I don’t know. You’d have to ask him.”

Castiel falls silent. The brim of his hat casts a shadow across his face and make the lines around his mouth and eyes look stark. Angels don’t age, so maybe it’s simple projection that makes Dean think he looks older somehow. Him, Sam, and Cas—their lives haven’t been easy these past few years. Hell, they started off a shitshow and somehow managed to get worse from there. Even though Castiel isn’t human and therefore doesn’t war his lassitude on his shoulders like him and Sam, Dean knows he’s holding all those years of fight and loss with him, too.

But the important part, the part that really matters, is that they made it. All three of them. They made it, and now they can take time off to play golf in ritzy country clubs, or splash around with Spring Breaking college girls on the beach, or go to Disneyland. 

Whatever mental marathon Castiel has run through in his mind comes to a close with a definitive nod of his head.

“I think Disneyland is a good choice. That’s where I would like to go. Jack could come, too.”

“Yeah, babe. Whenever you want.

— _Bolsa Chica State Beach, Orange County, California_ —

Life’s a beach.

That is to say, Dean thinks, good in concept, but maybe not so much in execution. And crowded. And sandy. And _loud_.

Bolsa Chica is a traffic-filled forty-five-minute drive from Disneyland. It’s a family beach that doubles as an RV park and hangout for mostly older locals. After their vacation at the Bradford & Mondale Country Club was cut short due to a surprise wolverine infestation, 

He’s got sand in places no man should ever have sand in, and the freckles on his shoulders look like Pollocks on his sunburned skin. 

It took about five minutes of standing in the cold water for Dean to rush back to shore and the scratchy warmth of his beach blanket. In the cruelest of ironies, Sam is splashing around on a wakeboard with a pretty brunette surfer chick and laughing like he’s having the time of his life.

“I think I’m getting too old for the beach,” he says to Castiel. He has to shout over the sound of screaming children and Come on Eileen someone is blasting from their RV.

“You should loosen up,” Castiel says sagely. He’s wearing a pair of bright pink floral board shorts a white tank top, and the paleness of his legs and arms would be comical if Dean wasn’t a little self-conscious of his own freckled pastiness.

A kid runs by and kicks up sand on his chest and face. He sputters and chokes, hands flailing in a patently undignified manner.

“This was a mistake,” Dean growls, rubbing his face furiously.

Castiel actually chuckles at him. “I like it,” he says simply. He brushes sand off of Dean’s cheek with a feather-light touch of his fingers. Dean cleared his throat and scanned the crowded beach for anyone who might have been looking at them sideways but didn’t move away.

When he’s finally satisfied, Castiel draws his hand back and digs his fingers in the sand next to Dean’s. A warm breeze rustles unruly strands of his hair in a tangled imitation of a halo. Dean’s fingers itch to reach out and card his fingers through them.

He clears his throat and shifts on his beach towel. “Lookin’ pretty dry there, Cas. Haven't gone in the water yet?

“I don’t know how to swim, so I thought I’d pace myself. I dipped my feet in the water earlier; it was surprisingly warm.”

Dean laughs. “Yeah, that might have been one of the rugrats, babe. Sorry.”

He shrugs, not looking nearly as upset as he should be to know he was in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong un-potty-trained kid. In fact, Castiel has been relaxed the whole weekend. He hadn’t even complained when Dean and Sam insisted on riding Space Mountain multiple times to see who would cry uncle first (it ended up being Dean, but only because he’d loaded up on Mickey Mouse-shaped crepes at Cafe Orleans). Castiel had refused to ride with them, but they eventually got him to ride the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad and Dean ended up getting lost in how bright he laughed at every twist and turn.

He jumps now when cool, sand-scratchy fingers glide over his exposed shoulder and trail down to the scar on his arm from the rougarou, pinked and smoothed over with time. There’s a crease in his forehead as if mapping out where Dean’s freckles congregate around the stars is delicate and important.

Dean clears his throat around a strange lump and leans into the touch. “So, is Disneyland everything you dreamed it would be? Overpriced food, scurrying kids, rides going out every twenty minutes…”

“I’ve had a lot of fun. I especially liked the performers in the chipmunk costumes.”

“ _I knew it_.”

Castiel’s expression is unreadable, but Dean’s pretty used to that. It just means he has to work a little to coax a smile out of him.

“You and Sam seem to be enjoying yourselves,” he says casually.

Dean looks over to where Sam and the surfer girl are splashing each other. Out in the open, laughing and splashing and flirting like teenagers.

He grins. “Oh yeah, Sam especially.”

Castiel follows his gaze to the couple and smiles softly. “Mmm. And you?”

“Saw Princess Jasmine and she looked even hotter in person, so I say minus the beach aspect, this was a pretty damn sweet vacation. You did good, Cas.”

Castiel drags a blunt fingernail across his wrist and Dean shivers. Castiel’s fingers still at the base of his wrist, an invitation without demand, and Dean bites his lip. The thing about Castiel is that he likes to hold hands—God only knows where he picked up that quirk from. Dean isn’t the biggest fan of hand-holding. For one, he isn’t twelve anymore. For another, holding hands only results in sweaty palms and dirty looks. He’s much more of a ‘make-out-on-a-couch’ kind of guy, and he had thought he’d turned Castiel into the same, but the guy still acts like holding hands is the ultimate third base.

And, well, whatever. It isn’t the _worst_ thing in the world. Certainly not worse than sand in your buns and getting your eardrums ruptured by banshee ankle-biters.

With a quiet breath, he turns his palm over and laces his fingers between Castiel’s. Castiel gives his hand a tight squeeze and smiles just enough to show a hint of teeth, and it takes everything in Dean’s willpower not to bridge the space between them and lock their lips together, audience be damned. 

He is… happy. Shit, he’s truly fucking happy, and isn’t that just the damndest thing?

“We could do this again,” he says in a near-whisper, caught in the bright blue of Castiel’s eyes. “The Disneyland part, I mean. Not the beach part.”

“But you wanted to go to the beach so badly…” Castiel frowns. Dean curses himself for putting it there.

“I mean, we could try a different beach,” he quickly amends, smiling wide to overcompensate. “It’s California, right? It’s lousy with beaches! If Jack’s feeling up to it, we could even drag him along.”

The smile comes back in full force and a kilowatt brighter, and Dean is floating on fucking air right here in Bolsa Chica.

Feeling bold, he brings their joined hands to his lips and places a quick, dry kiss on the back of Castiel’s hand. His heart hammers rabbit-fast in his chest, but he stares straight into Castiel’s impossibly eyes and refuses to look around. So what if some insecure tourist with a dad-bod wants to give him shit?

He’s on vacation.


End file.
